Making the bed's a necessary chore
though she insists it shows my OCD.
A bed unmade’s a sin which I abhor,
the first step on the road to anarchy.
“You silly fool,” she says. “It’s nothing more
or less than joyful spontaneity.
Please leave the sheets alone. Don’t be a bore.
Embrace the day with carefree gaiety.
Besides, no matter if the bed gets made
tomorrow it’s again a lovely mess.”
I must confess that I’m a tad afraid
this sort of spat upsets me to excess,
so best forgotten or at least ignored,
like who woke whom last night when someone snored.